I’d been dreaming of this Anglesey getaway for weeks, but the drive from Manchester turned into a proper comedy of errors when I took a wrong turn near Bangor and ended up looping around the same roundabout three times. Satnav was no help, bleating on about recalculating while I munched through half a packet of digestives in frustration. Still, by the time I rolled into Beaumaris, the sun was dipping low over the Menai Strait, casting this golden glow that made me forget the faff entirely. There it was, my home for the week: a chic seaside house right on the coastline, all modern vibes with those jaw-dropping views straight out to the water and the shadowy outline of Snowdonia in the distance. First impressions? Spot on – I was buzzing already, keys in hand, ready to kick back.

No sooner had I unpacked than I was raiding the kitchen, which was kitted out like a proper chef’s dream. I’d planned to live off local grub, and Beaumaris delivered in spades. First evening, I wandered down to the high street – it’s only a stone’s throw – and hit up the little independent shops for supplies. Grabbed fresh mackerel from the fishmonger, still glistening from the boat that morning, some crumbly cheddar from the deli, and a pile of veg from the market stall that pops up most days. Anglesey’s got this rep for top-notch produce, and it’s no exaggeration; those tomatoes tasted like summer in a bite.

Cooking became my holiday obsession, though I’m no MasterChef. Night one, I tried pan-frying the mackerel with local herbs and a splash of white wine from the offy – turned out half decent, flaky and full of flavour, served up on the balcony as the sun set. Paired it with a chilled glass of something crisp while watching the yachts bob about. But day two? Disaster. I fancied making Welsh rarebit with that cheddar, but I overdid the mustard and it came out like spicy rubber. Laughed at myself over a bowl of it, thinking, “Well, at least I’m trying – who needs perfection on holiday?” That moment hit me: sometimes the flops make the best stories, a gentle nudge that I’m winding down properly, not stressing over every detail back home.

Pubs were the real stars, though. The Semont Arms round the corner does a cracking fish and chips – proper haddock, golden batter, mushy peas that stick to your ribs. I went twice, once solo with a pint of Brains, eavesdropping on locals nattering about the regatta. Then there’s the George and Dragon, a cosy spot for a ploughman’s lunch: thick-cut ham, pickles, and that same local cheese, washed down with a bitter that’s miles better than anything chain-like. Even tried their lamb hotpot one night – melt-in-the-mouth, hearty as you like after a bracing walk along the beach.

Markets kept things fresh; I timed a visit to the Saturday one on the pier, snagging bara brith from a baker and cockles straight from the shell – salty, addictive, straight-up Welsh soul food. Back at the house, I whipped up a seafood stew with the cockles, mackerel scraps, and new potatoes from the greengrocer. It wasn’t posh, but with the views and a bottle of red, it felt gourmet.

By week’s end, I’d piled on a few pounds but left fitter in spirit, full of simple joys like that first beachside breakfast of bacon butties and strong tea. Beaumaris fed me body and soul – if you’re after a holiday where the eating’s as good as the scenery, this is your spot. Can’t wait to go back.